


near the garden

by preromantics



Category: Bright Star (2009)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble: <i>It is in the way the wild flowers past the garden move that remind her of him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	near the garden

It is in the way the wild flowers past the garden move that remind her of him. She recalls words and phrases and lines of poetry, and she'll take the box of his letters out on every anniversary and read them to herself, let the purple blooms brush across the bare skin of her forearm like fingers. Maybe like his.

It is not a plan, not set; she does not walk through the garden, Toots edging behind with a hand on the ribbon around her waist, and think of it each time the wind moves the flowers or rustles the leaves or causes the sun to make patterns on the ground.

On the third anniversary, though, Fanny sets out to the field with her letters. She doesn't feel empty, not anymore, not with the sun warming her face after days and days of rain, as if it came out just for her, just for them. She reads through the letters, the lines of her cheekbones wet then dry in succession as she turns pages, careful to keep the paper intact and crisp.

It is on the third anniversary that she notices bottom of the box, the pieces of fresh paper folded there, the writing utensils and ink. Paper she had saved, ready and fresh for the next occasion she would need to use it -- not really knowing she would never get the chance. She takes a crisp sheet out, a little worn and yellowed from disuse and she folds it out along her thigh, smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress.

She doesn't think about how long it's been since she's written, really written, and instead she writes anyway. She writes on their anniversary every year and she also stays up with it, writes among the leaves and the trees and the laughter of growing children, adults -- words and words.

Every word has a bit of him in it, although it's not Fanny's plan, and when she reads through stacks of what she has written she feels alive, and the touch of small blooms in the field, blowing across her skin, feels more like the warmth of his fingers than ever.


End file.
